Orbital: This is the Future of War (Future War Book 3)

by FX Holden

  D’Antonia saw more glances and whispers exchanged around the table, as the import of this admission sunk in. Some had no doubt hoped, even gambled, on Saudi Arabia being able to repair at least part of the processing plant. Complete destruction of the facility supplying seven million barrels of sweet crude a day or seven percent of the world’s sweet crude? It was unprecedented. OPEC member states could of course just start pumping more crude, but it needed to be processed and D’Antonia knew that there was no surplus processing capacity anywhere in the world that could be suddenly brought online to take up the slack. The decline in demand for crude oil globally had also meant a decline in investment in the plant needed to refine it, and processing facilities around the world had been closing, with not a single new facility of any importance opened in the last eight years. That decline in capacity had meant Abqaiq had maintained its pre-eminence as the largest oil processing and crude stabilization plant in the world.

  As Al-Malki paused to allow the chatter to subside, D’Antonia tried to read the room. The general mood was one of … equanimity. She could see why. There would be disruption to the global economy, yes. Heating fuel, gasoline and diesel shortages in India, Europe and China. Industrial output would stutter, even stagger, under the dual impact of the shortages and higher transport charges. Governments would lose tax revenue as people drove less, consumed less, businesses collapsed and healthcare and welfare costs rose.

  But for the oil-producing nations, other than Saudi Arabia, there was a silver lining. For Saudi Arabia, the impact would be felt within months, as its revenue from refined sweet crude evaporated. But for all the other nations, the immediate impact would be a significant jump in the price of crude oil and until the economic slowdown began to impact them as well, that meant they were all about to get richer. A lot richer.

  Al-Malki continued. “Now … our experts have studied the so-called ‘meteorites’ which struck Abqaiq. Many of these were recovered intact from the sandy ground around the facility. They were…” He frowned and turned to D’Antonia, who was standing. “Ah, please hand out the photographs, Ms. D’Antonia.”

  D’Antonia had a sheaf of printed photo reproductions in her hand and sent them around the table in both directions. She did not need to keep a copy for herself; she knew what the photos showed. They were row upon row of ‘plan and profile’ style pictures of the meteorites that had struck Abqaiq. Many had exploded on impact, sending needle-sharp shards of metal and white-hot plasma flying in all directions, but some had not and it was these the photographs showed. A collection of icebox-sized, blackened and pitted, curiously wedge-shaped rocks.

  “You will see,” Al-Malki said, referring to his notes, “they have several consistent features. I am told they are all composed of tungsten, with a metal iron core. No other metals or minerals are present. They are all, as you can plainly see, of a similar size and shape; teardrops or wedges. And on several of them – uh, please refer to the last row of photographs – you can see a regular, uniform groove that runs along one edge.” Al-Malki put his first page down and picked up his second. He was sweating now, and a drop from his brow fell on the page as he lifted it off the table, so that he had to pause and wipe it away before he could continue.

  Come on, big boy, Roberta urged. This can only mean…

  “Our scientists tell us,” Al-Malki continued, “that this can only mean that these so-called ‘meteorites’ were man-made! And that therefore the destruction of our oil processing plant was not an act of God, but rather…”

  Shouting in half a dozen languages had broken out around the table, and two or three delegation leaders had risen from their seats. Al-Malki kept his eyes fixed on the shaking paper and raised his voice so that he was shouting too, “… but rather … but rather … a deliberate attack designed to ensure its destruction!”

  The clamor around the room was too great for him to be heard and the Tunisian chairman rose unsteadily to his feet and banged a heavy gavel on the table. “Order! There will be order. Members will resume their seats. Prince Al-Malki must be allowed to finish his statement and there will then be ample time for members to respond!”

  D’Antonia ignored the commotion and the confusion of bodies now milling around the table behind the various delegates who were variously sitting or standing and waving their fists. Her eyes were fixed on the head of the Russian delegation, Lapikov. And of all those present, he looked the least surprised or outraged. A tightly neutral expression was plastered on his face, as though he was fighting to hold back any show of emotion. He was taking no notes, and his aides were also arrayed like Easter Island statues behind him, not shouting in his ear like the other aides, but mute and composed. D’Antonia sensed that they had prepared for this moment. He caught her looking at him and she quickly looked away.

  Al-Malki appeared to have lost his way in all the shouting. He was looking from face to face and recoiled at a particularly loud and acerbic remark from across the room. He had dropped his paper on the table, and now picked up both pages, seemingly unable to decide which was which. D’Antonia leaned forward, put her finger on the right page to show him his place, and said loudly enough for him to hear, “We are also in possession…”

  “Yes, yes,” he said angrily, snapping at her. He turned back to the table. “Mister Chairman, if I might conclude?” he called out.

  The Tunisian banged his gavel again three times before the noise subsided and people resumed their places. When it was done, he sat and waved a weary hand at the Prince. “Please.”

  “A deliberate attack, as I said. We are also in possession of intelligence that indicates that the source of this attack was … Russia.”

  The room erupted into shouting again and D’Antonia may have been the only one in the room to notice a small smile flicker across Lapikov’s face before it was replaced with an expression of faux anger.

  Al-Malki collapsed into his seat after wiping his brow, shutting his eyes and clenching his fists tightly on his thighs.

  One voice cut through the babble, and D’Antonia saw that Lapikov was standing now. “Russia demands the right to reply to these baseless accusations.” He had no notes in front of him – it might have been suspicious if he had – but he spoke in French with a practiced ease that indicated he had rehearsed his words. “Mister Chairman!”

  With a bang of his gavel, the Tunisian pointed at Lapikov. “The Chair recognizes Russia. You have five minutes, Minister Lapikov.”

  The others reluctantly sat and Lapikov stayed standing. He spread his hands on the table, leaning forward, fingers splayed as he glared around the table.

  You should have been on the stage, uomo, D’Antonia thought. But then I guess politics is the greatest stage of all, isn’t it?

  Russia may not be an economic powerhouse anymore, but as the only true military superpower among the OPEC Plus nations, when it spoke, the other nations listened. Iran had completed its quest for nuclear weapons some years previously and was closely allied with Russia, which also meant that when Russia spoke, it represented powerful allies.

  Lapikov injected his voice with venom. “We see nothing in this so-called ‘evidence’ to confirm that the destruction of your processing plant was anything other than an accident. These … photographs … if they are even real, show blackened rocks that happen to look the same. Eyewitnesses reported thousands of these meteorites falling. Where are the photographs of those rocks?”

  Al-Malki quailed under Lapikov’s thunderous voice and was looking steadfastly at his own hands, resting in his lap. As a mouthpiece of righteous indignation, he was the wrong man for these times. For any times, really.

  “As I thought,” Lapikov said, looking for nods of support around the room and getting them from his trusted allies – Iran, Syria, Venezuela. “You have none. So we do not trust your ‘scientific analysis’ any more than we trust your so-called ‘intelligence’ – which can only have been sourced from the usual poisoned well, the CIA!”

  Stand u
p, man, D’Antonia thought, willing the Prince to his feet. Fight back. But Al-Malki was hanging his head now, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. D’Antonia had been too busy on the line to Riyadh to work her network in advance of the meeting. If Saudi Arabia had allies around the table – and it should have been able to rely on Iraq, Turkey, Morocco and Tunisia at the least – they were AWOL at that moment and the Prince looked like a general already conceding the field of battle.

  Lapikov straightened now, folded his hands in front of himself and fixed his eyes on Al-Malki until the Prince lifted his chin and returned the gaze. “In times of great distress, we sometimes lash out at our friends instead of our enemies. We will forgive this ill-advised outburst. What I had planned to say, what I am still willing to say, is that Russia stands ready to help Saudi Arabia deal with this catastrophe, in any and every way possible.” Now he turned his eyes to sweep around the table, looking at them all. “Now is the time for us to stand united, more than ever. Do not let the Americans, or anyone else, divide us.”

  There was a heartbeat of silence, and then clapping from the Tunisian chairman, who was quickly joined by several others. “Well said, Minister Lapikov, very well said. Let there be no more wild accusations, let us hear concrete suggestions for how we deal with this catastrophe.” He looked down at an order paper on the table in front of him. “I now call on the head of delegation for Turkey to speak…”

  Al-Malki’s speech had gone much as D’Antonia had anticipated, and as she had warned the House of Saud it would. But the incensed representatives of the King wished to test the unity of their OPEC allies in the Kingdom’s time of need. They had gotten their answer, but it had not been the answer they had wanted. If anything, Russia had come out of the confrontation stronger, with Iran even tabling a future motion on the admission of Russia to OPEC as a full member.

  As the meeting wound up and Al-Malki was feebly working the room to try to salvage a modicum of pride, Roberta went downstairs to stand on the sidewalk and get some fresh air. The hotel was on a small side street behind the Elysée Palace and she watched as two heavily armed gendarmes dressed in black vests, boots, trousers and gloves, with dark wraparound sunglasses, walked down the street and turned a corner.

  “Theatrics, how we do love them,” a voice said. Denis Lapikov stepped up beside her, and she was surprised to see he was alone. “Especially you, it seems. Those photographs had Roberta D’Antonia written all over them.”

  “You would not have won the room if King Mohammed Bin Salman himself had been here to deliver that speech,” she said, turning a shoulder away from him. “Or if I had been given more time to socialize it. It was the messenger and not the message that failed.”

  He lit a cigarette and stood beside her, taking a long draw. “I could not agree more. Somebody pulled an incredible amount of information together in a very short time and made it into a very nearly compelling argument. Specious, but compelling.”

  She looked at him sideways.

  “Does my praise surprise you?” he asked. He took another draw, then threw the cigarette down on the sidewalk and ground it under his heel. “I came down here to make you an offer. I want you to work for me. And I want your answer immediately.”

  Her heart stopped. A position in the control room of Russian energy policy? Yes, of course yes. But no. AISE had tasked her against the Saudis, against OPEC. Russia was not the main game. Or was it? As her mind whirled, she heard a far-off siren wail. Had the world’s geopolitical landscape not just tilted, in a meteoric flash?

  “You cannot afford me,” she laughed, trying to buy herself time to think. “The House of Saud pays very handsomely.”

  “And takes care of all those annoying things such as taxes and offshore bank accounts, yes, I know,” he said. “My people told me. As you are a foreigner, I commissioned a very detailed backgrounder on you. Your family in Sicily raised a few eyebrows, some mafia connections there, I was told.”

  “Who in Sicily does not?” she quipped.

  “Exactly what I said. So here I am, making you a better offer.” She saw a glint in his eye. Amusement? Avarice? Or something baser?

  Keep your cool, Roberta, she told herself. “Better how?” she asked.

  “I suspect there is one thing you love more than money, Roberta D’Antonia, something no Saudi Prince could ever give you.” Unlike many Russians, Lapikov spoke with a strong French-English accent, the product of a Paris education.

  “And what is that?”

  “Power. You live it, you breathe it. The closer you are to the center of it, the more it excites you. I see your nostrils flare, your pupils dilate, your breathing quicken when you walk into a room like that today…”

  “Oh, do you? Now you are sounding creepy, Minister,” she said dismissively.

  “Nonetheless,” he persisted. “I can give you that. The era of Saudi dominance of OPEC is finished, you must see that. The future of OPEC is Russian. Russian oil, Russian gas, Russian lithium…”

  “Saudi Arabia is still the second-biggest producer of oil after the US. Russia only third,” she pointed out. “Aren’t you being a little presumptuous?”

  He smirked. “Perhaps. Shall we look at the political picture instead? Your Prince Al-Malki will be finished after the humiliation of today, you must see that. Whereas I sit in the Russian cabinet on the most powerful portfolio outside of Defense. The Russian President is my personal friend. He has promised to consider me for the Defense portfolio if I can deliver full membership of OPEC for Russia. I need a trusted advisor to help me do that, an advisor with an intimate understanding of the Kingdom, of OPEC, its players and policies. So, is it a yes, or a no?”

  He was feeling cocky after his victory upstairs, she could see that, but it didn’t make him wrong. It was true that without processing capacity, the Saudi ability to meet world crude oil demand would be crippled, which would weaken its position in OPEC. And it was true she had hitched her wagon to Al-Malki, whose unsuitability for his role had just been dramatically exposed. If he went down, she would go down with him, and her value to AISE would plummet…

  Madre di Dio, am I really doing this? She turned to face him. “You will match the remuneration package I have with the Prince?” she asked.

  “With a performance bonus of 100,000 shares in Mozprom,” he said. “When Russia is named a full member of OPEC.”

  She did a quick calculation. One hundred thousand shares were worth about a half million US dollars at today’s new Mozprom share price. Which was expected to appreciate further. It wasn’t the share package itself that captured her attention, but the size of the offer showed her how serious Lapikov was.

  “And your security service would have no qualms about granting a clearance to a foreigner?” she asked. “I was only admitted to the House of Saud after stringent background checks.”

  “You will need to undergo the same for this role,” he said. “And it will cost me some political capital. Which I am disposed to expend, in this case.”

  She smiled. “An interesting challenge … the answer is yes.”

  When Bunny O’Hare had said yes to join her X-37 squadron to help get it combat-ready, Alicia Rodriguez knew it would be no easy ride. O’Hare was not a born teacher – during her fighter career, she had been disciplined more than once for her inability to play nice with her fellow pilots. Rodriguez also knew that O’Hare would die a slow and painful death if she was required to report to an old-fashioned stickler for procedure like her second-in-command, Severin. So for this phase of the buildup of the X-37 squadron, Rodriguez had created an unorthodox line of command with herself as CO and acting Squadron Leader, and the 24 aviators and flight officers of the three operational X-37 spacecraft reporting to Severin, but with Bunny O’Hare as Crew Training Officer (External) with a nominal rank of O-3, or Captain, reporting directly to her.

  In advance of her arrival, Severin had worked up a proposed training program, and O’Hare had taken one look at it before walking s
traight in to Rodriguez’s office. “You want me to make them swim through this pile of wet manure, or you want me to turn them into a combat unit?”

  “Hello, Captain,” Rodriguez said, looking up from the documents she was working on. “I sense you’d like to discuss something. Is now convenient?”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” O’Hare said, sitting down in front of Rodriguez’s desk. “But we don’t have time to waste stepping people through lame computer-based training or simulator time. No offense ma’am but have you tried those simulators yourself?”

  “No O’Hare, but I haven’t heard any complaints about them before now.”

  “That’s because the people you inherited grew up with them,” she said. “Literally. They’re not even VR. Just a wraparound bank of 2D screens. The graphics are like something from an early century gaming console. The instrument layouts are fixed, like in the original Space Shuttle...”

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad...” Rodriguez said, unconvincingly. “Zeezee told me you’ve been doing a lot of simulator time yourself.”

  “Had some catching up to do on the whole Spacecraft Handling Qualities thing,” O’Hare admitted. “Flying the things isn’t a challenge. In atmo the stick controls the flight surfaces, in space it controls vectoring thrusters. Most of the driving and navigating is done by the AI and even if you want to take manual control, the AI plots the vector for you, all the pilot has to do is keep the bouncing ball inside the Heading Alignment Cone, and not smash into anything. But that’s how I know sim time can only take your guys so far. Especially in those pieces of stone-age junk they call sims.”